


Macroglossum stellatarum

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: A Bit Of Beer And A Bit Of Smoking, A Lot Of Fucking But Not In The Sense You Thought, Chance Meetings, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, First Kiss, Fucking, Hand Jobs, Issues, M/M, Neck And Ear Appreciation, Neck Kissing, Now That We've Dealt With All The Boring Shit, One Small Dusty Sex Toy In The Bottom Drawer, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Requited Unrequited Love, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29039319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: And now a few sentences about the nectaring process (with some wing action).
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Macroglossum stellatarum

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> Revisiting some good old concepts here. Most are listed in the tags, but also: food, books, monologues, awkwardness and fucking swearing. 
> 
> English is not my native language, which means it is something I have learnt, but there are other things in life I haven't, because I'm unconcerned with life, and if I have, I disregarded all that knowledge, and I possess everything that is described in here as much as I possess the words I used.

***

You overhear Tim saying it on accident.

Okay, probably not entirely on accident, because you do think that maybe you should put some distance between yourself and him, that maybe you should get up and go elsewhere, but you don't. Because you can't quite hear most of what Tim says and the rest - the rest you don't understand at all.

You've always liked the sound of the language.

Or the voice.

It's probably the voice.

So it is not entirely on accident that you overhear Tim saying what he says to somebody with whom he's on the phone, walking aimlessly around the room, looking nowhere in particular, switching back and forth, the words that you try not to listen to, but still catch sometimes, and words that you have no chance of understanding.

These words you do understand, though.

"Shit, you know, I think this time I'm done for good," you hear, Tim gesturing with a free hand. "Yeah. Yeah. Exactly right. Fuck it. I'm just gonna leave."

And then he goes on, in Swedish, producing a long string of quite expressive sounds, which, still, don't express much to you.

But that line - that you get.

And it sinks in.

He's leaving.

You're not going to see him ever again.

You should finally say something. You really should.

You will.

***

The thing is, for the next few weeks, _last_ weeks, you really think that you will say something. You even try. You obviously fail, even though Tim listens to you, talks to you, responding to your babbling. You only babble things at him. Random, unimportant things.

You still manage to keep thinking that if not today, then tomorrow you will.

You will say something.

You will tell him.

Because it's been literal years and nothing's changed. Sure, there were ups and downs, times when you thought you'd overcome this, that it's a thing of the past from now on, when you were either busy or not present, absent, or a few times - temporarily attached to someone else, there were those weeks when you thought that it was over. And there were times when it was back on and in full force, the same it was on day one.

The latter happened much more often.

So you know nothing's changed. You know you still... like him, want him, you have feelings for him, you know it is bad, it isn't light, isn't superficial, you know it's possibly forever, for a time that's so long you can't imagine it actually passing, you know it's all true.

And also, these last few weeks, you know that these weeks are the last ones.

You know that he's going to leave.

That other thing, you never seeing him again, is just a logical conclusion. Of course, you won't. Why would you see him after he has left, when you never had any contact with him while he was there. There's no reason for that.

There was just work.

And now - now there is going to be nothing.

So you feel, you're almost sure that you really have to tell him. Owe it to him. And to yourself. And to the dreams you didn't dare to dream. Of course, you didn't.

But you do think that you must say something. Tell him. Anything, really, anything at all. A small part of it. Two, three, four words. Letting him know. Hoping for nothing in response. Just saying something. Just finally breaking the damn silence.

And because it makes sense, because of it, you really think you will.

You also know that you won't.

You _know_ it.

You try to push it, the knowledge of yourself, somewhere into the back corner of your mind, away, try to forget about it, fool yourself, indulge in hope, make arguments, object, but you know you're right. You know you're right and you're wrong, about this determination, this vow that you give, you know that you know who you are, and who you are...

You are not the kind of person to break patterns.

You don't change.

You sell the house. The house you grew up in, lived with your parents in, left, returned to, occupied after they moved and let you in, the house that is a record of your history.

It isn't right away that you consider selling it, of course.

It doesn't matter to you, doesn't even come to mind, you're okay in there, after all, you don't need much, it is a house, you can live in it, and when you decide to sell it, you do not for quite a while.

But then you do, you find a buyer, a new house for yourself, closer to places where you have to be, and then, funnily, only after four months, you notice that this new house that you've bought isn't that much different from your old one. They look identical. Feel identical. It is as if you've taken all the space inside and brought it with you. They are the same.

Old, boring and restrictive. Lonely.

You try rebelling.

You have a thought that maybe, maybe, it is the furniture that is to blame. The bed that's suitable for hardly anything, the shelves and things on them, equipment, tub, table, even windows and stairs. You could attempt redecoration. The fridge's alright. You didn't really choose it. It was alright back in your parents' house. You didn't choose it either. Didn't matter. You nodded, paid, you said that it was fine and then it was installed.

But other things have imprints of your hands on them. Of your teenage hands. You as a six year old's hands. Your history is ingrained in them, and you do wonder what it is you paid for, what it is you bought, where - or if - you even moved.

So you try rebelling. You go to a store. You look at furniture.

It's when you find yourself standing near a piece, thinking that this looks like it's well-made, that it would work for you, you only need to ask a few questions and maybe they come in smaller size, because even a smaller one would do without any problem, it can be used and it is what is was designed for, it's when you catch yourself thinking all of that standing near a piece of furniture that looks exactly like the one you have at home, like every one of them, that you decide that it is over.

Hopeless.

You're hopeless.

You won't ever change. You're boring, lonely and restrictive to yourself.

And you're old.

You'd often wondered about it. Before that day. About when it is that old age comes. What old age even means.

Because it's not the number.

You know that from that day on. It's not. The number's pretty low still. But you're boring, lonely, restrictive to yourself and old. Your life won't change. You'll stay the same. Your every day will look exactly like your last one. That's how days have always looked. You were born old.

You're hopeless.

So better - better not to muddy the water. Lie still. Do what you must. Just live. Don't wait.

Nothing will ever happen.

Nothing will ever be done by you.

Nothing will be said.

***

You end up being right, of course. Without any joy in that. You just don't say a single thing.

Sure, you talk with him, on his last day, you thank him, he thanks you, _I'm proud to have worked with you_ and all of that, it's not completely formal, because Tim isn't and because you've worked side by side alright, it has been... nice, and fun at times, fulfilling, it's been really good, you wish him luck, the best of luck, he says the same, but with more feeling to it, he is not formal, but there's never been much contact between you two.

You say goodbye.

Tim says the same and something else - but not to you.

"And you, asshole, I will meet on Monday," Tim says, having turned away from you, talking to the person he has fallen out with. "Don't be late."

It's only two days later that you realize that on Tim's last day there, in the last few seconds, you weren't even looking at him.

You looked at Manson. At his upside grin. His reaction. Heard his muttering. Listened to it. You even tried to calm him - both of them - down, though both of them were pretty calm and you're not good at that task either, even though you calming them down looked like doing nothing or maybe shifting on your feet, lifting your hand and looking guilty for something you never had any control of.

That's what you did on Tim's last day.

And then you caught him walking out the door. You saw his back, the jacket, and then the door was shut.

It's only two days later that you realize that this, his back, was the last you saw of him. That he has really left.

You think about leaving too.

Then - and before too, after overhearing. And earlier than that.

You never do, and then you do, after a while, you do leave.

And you come back.

Of course, you do.

Nothing will ever be done by you.

Everything will stay and always was the same.

***

Tim's wearing the same jacket when you run into him at Walmart.

But actually, you don't. You don't see him. And it is him who runs into you, almost literally, walking past you, nearly bumping into you, then stopping, saying _hey_ , _oh hi_ and _Ginj_.

You're too probably wearing something Tim's already seen and pretty often, you look the same and, probably, Tim looks the same too, because no unimaginable stretch of time has passed since you last saw him - his back - but you don't see him, you see only the jacket, you don't really look at him.

Though you do think that you should. Should thank your luck and look at him, while you have that chance.

But no. You look at the floor, the shelves, the space inside the aisle, anywhere else, but not at him.

Tim, on the other hand, sees you - and then looks at you.

When he nearly bumps into you, while you're standing there in the aisle, holding two packages of washcloth and considering if you should buy this new one they're advertizing or just stick to the regular one you always buy, your cart with napkins, hand sanitizer, rolls of toilet paper and trash can plastic bags between you two.

Oh, Tim looks at you. Says _hey_ , _oh hi_ and _Ginj_. Then at your cart. And at you, up and down.

You know Tim's not an asshole. He isn't... judgy. And you - you're uncomfortable and anxious, you definitely read too much into it. Tim is just attentive. And you - you're really boring, and nobody needs to investigate your person to figure out that. It just jumps out. It is obvious, and Tim isn't blind.

"What's up?" Tim asks, after you respond to him, jump, turn around, look away, say his name, think you should look at him and hear the rustling of the package you're holding while he looks at you. "How have you been?"

You tell him you're here shopping, nodding at your cart he has already seen, he says _I see_ , then shows you two beer bottles you didn't even notice, says _I'm just grabbing some beer_ , you breathe out sounds, he asks you why you're shopping for your washcloth and hand sanitizer here, you tell him you live nearby, his forehead wrinkles, you see that, when you glance at him, because avoiding eye contact altogether is impolite, because you should look at him, because it is embarrassing, you spent years in the same band with him and - though it did take you a while - you managed to interact with him without making every conversation into a goddamn disaster, he asks you _really_ , says _weren't you living in uh..._ , because he doesn't remember where you lived, of course, he doesn't, you tell him that you've moved, moved a few years back, and he says _oh_.

You ask _what about you?_

You catch his smile, the one that says _dude, I've already told yo_ u while he says that he was in the area, _dealt with the business and thought I wanted beer_ , he says, explains again, _don't wanna go home yet, that's why, I might hang out somewhere for now, though how I'll be drinking this fucking beer - that I don't know, out of a paper bag or something, and why, why would I, it is shitty, I have plenty of the one I like at home, but I'm not going there yet, so yeah..._

 _Here's to Walmart_ , he says, saluting you with both bottles.

You nod along, as he speaks.

Steal glances at him, when you think you aren't risking being caught. When you think you might pass as normal human being.

Just a dude who Tim used to play with.

"And how is it going for you?" he asks, rephrasing his _how have you been_ question.

 _The same_ , you say. _Not much to tell._

And it isn't just that you've swallowed your tongue.

It's simply true.

"Haven't you left too?" Tim asks, wrinkling his forehead once again.

You think you might be managing this chat just fine.

You say you had. And then - that you came back. Wasn't much different. No good offers. Just done some VJing. Apart from that - not much to do. Just all the same. So what's the point. At least you've been there for a long time.

Tim nods, as you speak. Nods, moves his lips, his hands, rubs at his nape, leans on the shelves, beer bottles clinking.

"Well, as long as it is working for you," Tim concludes. "My opinion might still be a bit biased, so..."

You say you understand. You say _and what about you?_ And mutter something about Tim's own thing.

That's yet another conversation of his that you overheard.

"Oh, my own thing is going great," Tim says. "I've grown fucking tired of all that legal trash party, so... Being on my own's great. All of it is great. I'm writing. And you know, after so many years of touring slavery I kinda think I need to rest. Though..."

Tim pauses, facial expression changing.

"I've also got used to the said slavery, so I don't really know how to do that," he continues, smiles. "Like, I made a pact with myself that I won't accept every fucking offer that comes my way and only will choose those I really like, and also fuck everybody who cries for help, I only help those who really deserve it, you know, something with a spark, but... Let me tell you, there have been difficulties with that. I have a feeling I might be more of an all or nothing kind of guy... And if there's nothing, I don't fucking know what to do. Thus shitty Walmart beer."

You feel a bit of worry. Just a bit. Because Tim's facial expression tells you it is nothing serious, it's nothing, just part of being in the industry, just lazy days, weeks, months, it happens - and not only to people like you.

So you don't say that. That you're sorry, that you hope it will get better. Tim is okay. You see it. And you...

You are still the same.

Tim lingers.

You think that's it, he will say _so, see you around_ , he will say that and you'll part ways, forever, until he maybe bumps into you again, years later, when you will have another conversation rattling your nerves and you'll say nothing, you won't see enough of him, though after a few minutes you will look, you'll make yourself look at him.

Because it won't ever be enough.

And this is it, you're sure.

But Tim lingers.

Sighs and lifts his hand, touches his hair, checks his pockets and shoves the beer bottles under his arm, nodding with a smile at you.

"Fuck, it's so weird..." he says, looking you up and down once again, you and your cart. "We've worked in that touring circus for years, and I know like fuck all about you. Didn't even know that you'd moved. It's..."

You tell him it's okay. You aren't such an interesting person. There isn't much to know.

You're confused.

Is Tim just bored? Is it somehow a polite way of getting out of the chat that he's come up with? Is he alright?

"Yeah, right, maybe, I don't know," Tim says, hearing your assessment of yourself. You mean it. The things you say. Also, you're uneasy. This is isn't much, but it's like going from zero straight to ten for you. It is definitely too much of Tim - though it won't ever be enough. You might be blushing. "Maybe there isn't _much_ to know, but there must be something. Like... Oh. You're left-handed. That I know."

You nod. Show him your hand. You're still holding the damn washcloth. You put it in the cart, both of them, as Tim chuckles.

It's not a mocking kind of chuckle.

"Well, maybe this is it," you say, as Tim adjusts the beer bottles under his arm.

Tim laughs again, while you try to store it, the way he does it, in your memory without staring.

"Nah, come on..." he says. "Fuck, I don't like even know how old you are... When's your birthday?"

You tell him it's a few months earlier than his. You do remember when his is, though he never mentions it. You saw it somewhere. And then it got stuck with you.

 _Like two months_ , you say. _Two months and a half._

"So like..." he says. "September?"

 _Twenty eighth_ , you tell him. Couldn't tell him right away. Just couldn't. Why would he want to know. Why would he, god, of course, he wouldn't.

"Same year?" Tim asks.

You tell him it is the previous.

"Oh," he says. "So..." Pauses. "Forty three?"

You nod. Tim smiles. You thank your luck again.

Or maybe it is his. His luck that for some reason decided to be kind to you. Not always. Just this time.

"Well, now that's something," Tim tells you.

You're sure that's it. He'll say he's got to run, that he is in a hurry. This is it.

You mutter something, as he cuts you short.

"Hey, I hope I'm not..." he starts, louder and more determined than you. "Like..." He makes a gesture between you two, while you stop speaking, while you wait for him to speak. "Are you in a hurry or something? I hope I'm not imposing with all of this."

You shake your head. You're in a hurry - to correct him. There's nothing to apologize here for. Not to you. You're just shopping. It's alright. You're glad you've met and talked.

It is all true too. You're just not saying everything.

You're just saying something to avoid saying anything.

You can't. You won't. You know that.

"Cool," Tim says, visibly relaxing.

You mutter something else, something like _and you_ and _uh_ , you simply want to give him a way out of here, to tell him it isn't necessary to continue - or to apologize, it is all fine, you're really glad to see him, but he doesn't hear it.

You can't say a single thing anyway.

"Hey, I uh..." he starts, then shakes his head, raking his fingers through his hair, pressing his elbow into the side to avoid losing the bottles. "God, okay... I really don't wanna go home yet and I'm not thrilled about the prospect of paper bags, so like if you're definitely not in any hurry, then we could hang out or... Fuck, can I just go ahead and invite myself to yours? I promise I'll behave."

You blink.

It is almost like that phone conversation you overheard. No chance of understanding. No words. Just his voice.

"Uh, I..." you respond, then apologize just in case, say _sorry_ , and then, because you think, even though you can't understand a thing, that this is what you heard, you say... "Sorry, you want to... come to my house?"

You barely can understand your own words, they come out dry and faint, but Tim does. He shifts, shrugs, opening his arms - just one of them and rather awkwardly, then laughs and shakes his head again.

"Yeah?" he says. "That's what inviting myself means. But... Fuck. Fuck, okay, sorry about that. Forget it, I'll just..."

"No," you hurry out, trying to figure out what to add as you go, because this just sounds rude, it's ringing in your ears. "No, no, it's... It's okay, you can, I'll be... Sure. I just..." You gesture at the cart, attempting to once again apologize with your pose and tone and your whole body, like back then, when you were calming down nobody. "Can you wait for me? I still need... you know."

"Oh," Tim says, nods, shows you his palm. "Yeah, sure. Your shopping. I'll just wait. Check out the aisles. You take your time. I mean, I've kinda jumped you, so... Sure, I'll wait. And thanks. Thank you for accepting my self fucking invitation."

You smile at the floor.

Tim waits for you.

First, at the cashier's, next to the counter, standing there, leaning on it and telling you that he's bought bullshit, showing you a bunch of popsicles, a box of crackers and a can of artichokes, shrugging, as if to say something in the language you don't speak but like the sound of, he waits for you, while your purchases are being checked, looking at them and at you, while you pay and pack the bags.

Then, he waits next to your car you start, gesturing at him that the doors are open, meaning he can get in, but he stays where he was, lingering between the front seat and the trunk, again looking at your bags you're putting there, saying _let me_ and taking the empty cart away, sending it towards the store worker who's come to collect it.

You're sweaty. Your back, under your shirt.

You're afraid that if this is to continue, Tim looking at you, which feels like he's looking inside of you, you might not be able to take it anymore.

You have accepted being boring. Being reminded of that constantly... that's new. That's hard. That's painful.

But once in the car, Tim starts looking at the road. He asks if that's okay, smoking, that is, not turning his attention away from you, and you confirm that of course it is, so he smokes, looking at the road you follow to go home with hooded eyes.

***

Tim keeps looking at anything but you once you let him in. Though it doesn't help.

You let him in, taking all the bags out of the trunk yourself, because you've declined his request to give you a hand, you let him in, and he starts walking aimlessly right that second, looking around, at the windows, the stairs, the walls of your house. Which doesn't help you, because all of those have imprints of you on them. It's still like being seen from the inside.

Yet, you tell him to make himself at home, Tim nodding, barely listening to you, since he already has - and now is intrigued by the new surroundings. You tell him you'll be with him shortly, you just need to put down your shopping, there're things that need to be in the freezer, you explain, as Tim hums with an open mouth, agreeing, turning his head slowly, taking in the inner view. You tell him that and that you'll be back soon, just need to put the bags down and grab a bite, you're a bit hungry, but it won't take much time, and as Tim barely reacts to that, you kind of shake at your own rudeness and hurry to correct for it. You ask him if he too would like to eat.

"Sure," he says. "Thanks for offering. Oh, and do you want some shitty beer?"

You decline the beer as well. You tell him that you'll make something and in advance inform him that he shouldn't expect much, you're not good at that, you tell him you will call him, once it's ready, you leave him to go around the living room in circles.

He sinks his teeth into the sandwich that you've made after putting all the things he's already seen away, as pushed back and locked as possible, leaving no trace of two types of washcloth in your kitchen that Tim still keenly looks around, sparing not a glance at what he's biting into, his facial expression changing momentarily and you catching it - raised eyebrows, wrinkled nose, quirked lips.

"Sorry," you tell him. You tell him, you repeat yourself, that you know it's not good, you aren't good at that, he shouldn't expect much from you and your sandwiches, you know that he cooks, pays attention to things like that, there were instances you noticed over the years, Tim asking for a knife or for some spices, saying _god_ , as if his patience had run short, and doing something to the food, something mysterious that not only you, but everyone in the room observed, perplexed, neither his exasperation, nor his endeavors making sense, and there were instances when you too put something in your mouth on the run, expecting nothing, no taste, and jumping in surprise, while someone else was saying _good, huh_ , as things were bursting on your tongue, saying _that's Tim's shit_ , saying - usually - _no idea where he gets it from_ , and you personally think, though never say, that at least some of those instances were Tim making it himself.

Tim laughs, looking down, to the side.

"It isn't bad," he says, nodding at your cooking next to his hand. "It's okay. It's really fine. And, please, forgive my face, I try to keep my mouth shut and not be a fucking snob, but I guess my damn mug does nothing but betray me. It really isn't bad. Thank you. It's just..." he looks away from you, at the plate again. "I'm not saying it's like a waste, but... it kinda is? I mean... It isn't bad, like, burnt or moldy, it's good, all the things in it are, they aren't shitty like that beer I've got, but... much better could be done with them? Sorry. I guess I also can't help but notice things like that."

You tell him it's okay, it is all fine, no need to apologize, not to you, and it makes sense, him noticing things like that, because he can do that, can cook and make it better, it's just you can't.

"It's not that hard," Tim tells you. He tells you it is pretty easy, explains how taste changes depending on the cut, how some things dull the taste and some other things bring it out, he says he could show you, he offers - maybe asks - to make a sandwich of his own right here, now, for both of you, the same sandwich that you've made, but...

He pauses there, moving his shoulders, lips, looking down and smiling, as you too laugh, you know what comes after that _but_ , you tell him that of course he can, he can do that, you'd be glad if he did.

You give him the knife. All the knives, you show them to him, and he chooses one. You tell him that the spices are in that... You don't say in what. You don't really need to. He gets up. You don't see his face, as he goes through the old, forgotten packages of herbs you keep in there. You don't really need to. His back tells you everything. And there is a soundtrack.

"Oh, okay," Tim says, hums, raking his fingers through the insides of your cupboard. "Oh. This would do."

You tell him that yes, there is butter in the fridge.

The process is still mysterious to you, even though he talks you through his every movement.

You've always liked how his hands and fingers moved.

Or just his hands. Just all of him.

The sound that you make once you try the product of Tim's work is a surprise to you. You... You reserve your judgement. Not because you're offended or upset about anything Tim has said, it is all true, after all, you just don't think about how it will turn out and you don't know why, maybe you don't care, maybe you're sure it will be good, maybe it is simply because you watch Tim's hands and fingers all that time, you don't know, but the sound that you make once you take a bite is something like _oh, wow._

Tim shrugs, opening his arms, lips quirked, mouth full, chewing with that relief you sometimes noticed over the years written on his face.

It's good, it is everything Tim told you it could be and more, and things burst on your tongue again, as you say nothing, as you keep silent, as you tell him it's no wonder he didn't want to eat yours.

"Oh, no, I'll eat it," Tim says, picking up your sandwich, voice emphatic. "It seems it's all I do these days - fucking eat."

He looks down, not to the side, at himself, hand on his stomach, and you start saying something too, as he goes on, talking about his future being imminently fat, if he's to continue, you start saying something, to convince him otherwise, to ease the worry, you mutter, babble, like you always do, you say _oh no, it's_ and _you look_ and _you're_ and you never finish. You might get caught. Your tongue might slip. It's not even a worry, Tim is mostly joking, Tim doesn't really care, and even he did, who the hell are you. Who are you to tell him what you don't, that it is not a problem, that it is really nice on him, that he looks great, like that and in general, that nothing's changed and if it had, it doesn't matter, he's - no _still_ \- beautiful, he is.

Beautiful.

Who are you to tell him that.

You and your moronic, tactless words you could never say anyway.

Tim laughs out loud, when you manage to stutter out some.

"Fuck," he says, shaking his head, still chuckling. "Jesus. That's like the most heterosexual compliment I've ever gotten. The most heterosexual thing I've ever heard. Fuck."

You couldn't just shut up, could you? You started speaking, started saying something, babbling, you had to find the way out.

You don't correct him. Of course you don't.

You tell him he is _a handsome man_. Blush, as he laughs out loud. As he reacts. You curse yourself. Hate yourself.

"Thanks?" he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling, whole face you could never look at quirking.

***

When you go back into the living room, you can't look at all of him.

He never stops.

You go back, and Tim doesn't sit down, Tim starts travelling around the room, asking if he can and already walking as you say _yes, of course_ , Tim moves in confusing, random circles, touching things. The insides. The space between the walls.

And you can't look at him.

You're still too busy hating yourself, sitting there on the couch, phone in hand, staring at the same news page without reading, refreshing it, failing to understand a single word.

You don't really need to look at him.

You feel his... presence.

Yes, Tim also speaks, he talks with you, says things from time to time, asks questions between the lazy drags and lazy sips he takes, about this and that. He hums, when you answer.

And unprompted too.

But you don't need to hear him either, you simple feel, know he's there. Impossible not to.

It's a bit foreign, but it is not aggressive. Not unpleasant. It is just something that has never happened, and it's a creature that has never landed on these grounds. Never breathed this air.

This exotic, rare creature you have curiously walking around your living room. Taking up all the space. Talking - to you and to the imprints of you that it finds.

You genuinely don't know what to do.

You refresh the page.

You answer questions, you tell Tim everything he wants to know, you tell him _yes, of course_ , of course he can look at your books, he hums, _wow_ , Tim says and then goes on, he tells you that he read this one too, was great, and that one he struggled through and never finished, and this, this book he wants to read, so how is it, worth it, and you tell him everything, while he shows you your own books, waving them at you.

You look down, at the page.

"Shit," Tim says. "Wow. Have you really read this? Fuck, you have." He cracks the volume open, pages rustling, tracing his fingers over your notes. "Un-fucking-believable. How? Seriously, how?"

You laugh, softly, quiet, barely audible, your eyes on the articles about events you'll miss, you'll never learn of.

You say you have. You tell him that.

The most boring books for the most boring guy.

You do tell him something along those lines. He shakes his head.

"Oh, come on," he says, finishing the second bottle of his Walmart beer and putting it on your table. "If you're as boring as you say you are..."

He tells you about a book.

A book he always sees in shops, _always_ , a massive, huge thing, fucking hundred thousands of copies, he has checked, and the very first sentences of it are just crazy, he simply can't, he gets a headache even looking at them, but the thing is everywhere, so somebody must be reading it, it would be the most boring guy, that somebody, because the book is just unbearable, he's never seen a living breathing being who has read it.

You laugh, biting your lips.

You tell him you are reading it right now.

Really.

You're not kidding.

You're not.

It's upstairs, in your bedroom.

You can even show him, if he wants.

He asks you if he should come with you, as you get up and walk towards the stairs.

You tell him that he can. You don't know what. Don't know what it is you're permitting him to do. Sweat runs down your back, as the presence follows you, walking up, hovering and humming.

***

You pass the book to Tim, picking it up from the nightstand.

He's standing at the entrance, leaning on the doorpost, when you pass him the book. He lights up a cigarette. You take a few steps back, stopping near the bed, shifting on your feet.

Tim barely even glances at the book, turns a few pages, takes a drag, his hand with the volume dropping, Tim looking around, eyes, lips, whole face moving.

"Here," you tell him. You clear your throat.

"Yeah," he hums, taking another drag, slow, pensive. He puts the book down, puts it aside. "Hey..."

You tell him _yes_. Tell him that of course he can.

"What's with the style?" he asks, gesturing around, wide. There is too much of him. "Like, everything is so... Fuck, the last time I saw something like this was at some old auntie's house where I got dragged to against my will. And that was like early seventies. I mean... What's with all of this? Is it like your thing?"

You look at your own feet.

You could tell him. Share the words with him, the words that he clearly can't find, can't describe what he asks about.

Old. Boring. Restrictive. Lonely.

You could tell him that.

You tell him it is not. It's not your thing, you didn't think much about it, you didn't choose, it kind of happened to be like that on its own, it's always been like that, at your previous house too, it is not a thing.

"I told you I wasn't very interesting," you tell him, shrugging. "Not much to know."

Tim pshaws. Hums, swaying on his feet, pushing himself off the doorpost and into another journey, a short, bounded one, the walls of your bedroom too tight for him, his hands he waves at you almost grazing them.

"Bullshit," he says. "You're left-handed. Forty three. You read thick books. You buy good ham. Can't cook, but... That's already enough of a list, okay? That's a list."

You worry your left hand in your right.

"And that's only mine, and I know fuck all," he continues. "Just what I've said... Oh. And hetero. You're hetero. That I know. That's a list."

You curse yourself. Hate yourself. You could never say a single word, couldn't say a thing.

"N-no," you say. Tim blinks at you, upper lip raised and quirking.

You tell him you're not. You hate yourself.

Tedious.

That's also what you could've told him.

"What?" Tim asks, blinking. "You're not what?"

You wish the flooring in your bedroom had cracked. You wish you had fallen through it. You wish you had simply disappeared.

"Not straight," you tell him.

Tim's buzzing bounces off the walls, filling the whole room, pushing, forcing you out of it. Run. Run. Run.

If only you were good at that.

You aren't.

Aren't good at anything.

"Uhm," Tim says, humming, buzzing, puzzled, stopped in his tracks, hands trapped in the air, midmotion. "Then..."

 _What are you then_ , Tim asks you.

You're not the only one who's lost for words.

It seems, Tim is lost for concepts, but you can't really help him out. You could tell him you're old. Boring. Restrictive. Lonely.

You could tell him you're nothing he should concern himself with.

"I'm bi," you tell him instead.

"Wow," Tim says.

You wish you had disappeared. You said it, told him, simply to correct him. It is the second time. And you're tedious. You're aware it's not the best place or time. You feel stupid. Awkward. Ridiculous. Who are you that he needs to know that. Who are you that he needs you.

You are scared.

You might've been scared all along.

"Wow," Tim repeats. "Shit. Seriously?" You nod, head spinning. Tim goes on. "Wow. I guess I'll be needing heavy repairs done to my gaydar then. Fuck. Wow. I never even... I never once saw you with anybody. Never saw you even looking at somebody. At a guy. Fuck. I mean, I've seen you with girls at parties and all that shit, but... Wow. Bi. Fuck. You never even like... glance at anybody. Fuck, okay, yeah, you stare at people, you always do, I've noticed that, just hide behind your kit and watch everybody go about their shit like you're a surveillance camera or something..."

You laugh, nervous.

You tell him it is just another boring thing you do. A boring habit of a boring person.

Watching others live their lives because you don't have one of your own.

Something like it.

Tim makes a face.

"Nah," he says. "Come on. It's just... just a hobby. There is nothing to it. So what that you look at people? I mean..." he chuckles. "God, you know, I've just realized, back then, when I just joined, it really got on my nerves. Like, I was seriously... It's like you suspected me of something, that's what I thought. Like being watched by the fucking police. Or a homicidal maniac, don't know. Cuz you'd just stare at me. But like... in a sneaky way? You'd look and then when I saw that you'd turn away like nothing'd ever happened, like no, I was just admiring the wall, but you know. If your eyes cross, it means they were staring. You, I mean. You fucking were, all the time. Kept me on my toes. I didn't fucking know what was your deal, like had I done something to you and forgot, had my greatgreatgrandfather murdered yours, did you need exactly my shade of eyes for you secret collection, what, I just didn't fucking know and you were staring at me, like, at everybody, sure, because that's your hobby, but at me like all the time, like somebody had paid you to, and I just had no idea why you'd... oh. Oh."

"Oh," Tim buzzes.

It is painful.

Your left hand goes numb in your right, numb and hurt, as you hold yourself, squeeze it, being caught.

You're caught.

It's scary and it's painful and how did you even dare thinking that you would say that yourself, how did you dare thinking that even once, how. You're going to faint. Your heart will give out. You will disappear, you wish you could just disappear.

Coward.

You could tell Tim that.

"Oh," Tim says, forehead wrinkling. "Fuck. Shit. Do you..."

Nothing will ever happen, change, because you will never do it. You will never do a thing. You're a coward, that's why.

"You were..." Tim keeps buzzing, confused, disorientated. "Why? I mean, why were you staring at me back then? Do you..."

That is why.

"Do you like... _like_ me?" Tim asks you.

You would've shaked, you would've shivered, if you could.

You're all numb.

"Y-yes," you tell him.

At least you tell him that, right? No. No. You tell him simply because Tim asks first.

Tim blinks.

There is silence in your house. There is such silence in your house you've never heard before, it has always been pretty quiet, lonely, boring, old, resctrictive, but this new silence deafens you. Blinds you.

This new silence just dissolves you. It makes you disappear.

"Why haven't you told me?" Tim asks you, his breath - no, his lips - touching you ear.

You don't really see him smiling. Gradually. Tentatively, unsure, still a bit confused, then brighter, wider, crooked and... amused?

You don't see him walking towards you. Taking the first unsteady step. Just one at first. Then stopping. Tilting his head. Looking you up and down one more time. You and everything of yours. Your imprints. Insides. Your face that is more red than the damn duvet on the bed.

You don't see him crossing the tight confines of the room to get to you. You're sure your eyes are closed. You're sure you're blind. Deaf. Collapsed onto yourself.

You're sure you aren't even breathing.

You don't see Tim looking at you from a distance that has never been this short between you two.

You don't know how long he does that.

"Why?" he repeats, hot, right next to your ear, his head, neck tilted, chest almost touching yours, voice low, shuffling your hair. "Hey. Why haven't you told me?"

You moan, as he licks your ear.

You tell him everything. Everything you can. You can't tell him much, though there are things to tell, you just can't, you moan instead, but he understands you anyway, he doesn't need your moronic words. You tell him _you are... you_ , you curse yourself, you hate yourself, you repeat _you are_ and shiver, as he laughs, close, right next to your ear he keeps licking, running his tongue over it, leaving kisses, sucking on the lobe, his breathing hot. _A handsome man, I got it_ , he says, laughing, whispers, low, humming, tickling you, your nerves. You tell him _and I am..._

 _I am me, okay_ , you tell him, barely hearing your own voice, weak and faint, catching in your throat. _Uh-huh_ , Tim says, moving lower, lips on your neck, soft, agile lips. _Boring. Not very interesting. Not worth it, right?_

You moan. It is painful.

 _No_ , you tell him. _No, no, it's not that, it's just..._ That's what you say, even though it is that. _I'm_ , you say. _I'm bi, but I..._

 _You know_ , you tell him.

"Yeah," he says, laughing, licking deeper into your ear, hot, wet and sucking, making you disappear. "Probably a fucking virgin. Judging by the bed."

You moan. It's unbearable.

You know Tim is not an asshole. You've looked at him for long enough, for years, you remember all sorts of things about him, things he himself never even mentions, doesn't care about, things he surely forgot, you know that he is not out to hurt you with everything he does. With everything he says.

You know he isn't mocking you, laughing at you, teasing you, you know that he doesn't want to hurt you when he asks _fuck, seriously, have you ever fucked in this bed_ , pressing his open mouth to your neck. _Is it even fucking possible_ , he asks, _it can't be, like, really, what do you even do in here, you must at least like jerk off in it, so do you?_

You know that him standing so close to you and touching, touching you, on accident, because of leaning in, on purpose, cupping your head, pulling you closer, hips bumping into yours, running a palm down your spine, your shirt, pulling it out, fingers slipping under it, brushing against your skin, and lips and tongue against your ear he whispers in, you know that him doing all of that is not about causing pain, it's not about scaring you.

You tell him _yes_. You answer him. He asks a question, and you answer.

 _Cool_ , he says and shifts, and you feel, you again feel that he is hard against you, against your thigh.

 _How_ , he asks you.

You know he doesn't want you to cry here. Doesn't want you to run away and hide. Doesn't want you to disappear.

He's simply curious, _naked_ , he asks you, _do you do it naked_ , Tim asks, whispering right in your ear he keeps licking.

You tell him _no_. You answer him. You stand still and shake inside, as he lifts his head, leans back, looking at the chair your pyjamas are hanging on and chuckling softly.

"Fuck," he mutters. Buzzes. Hums. "Okay," he says, running his tongue over the very edge, kissing the curves, biting gently, pulling, sucking it into his mouth - and saying things right into it, right into your ear. "And... Fuck, how? I mean, there's nothing here, not even a TV, so... You do watch porn, don't you? Tell me."

You tell him everything you can.

You tell him, struggling for words and breath and mostly letting out moans, that you do. That you bring your laptop here. If you... You don't finish that. You tell him that mostly you do not. That you just... You just do it. Like that. Without anything.

You drown in the hot hum he exhales.

"Yeah?" he asks, hand travelling in circles under your shirt, right on your naked skin, on your exposed nerve endings. "Cool. How? Like... What do you think about?"

You tell him you don't know. You don't know anything. You know he is not an asshole, he isn't hurting you or mocking you, you know it is painful, you hope you're not going to cry.

"Come on," he says, both hands on you, hands and lips, lips on your neck. "Tell me. What do you think about? Have you ever thought about me?"

You know he doesn't want you to disappear, it's just with all of that you don't. You can't. He holds you there. With everything he does. With everything he says. He makes you be there.

So close to him.

You don't cry.

You don't cry, but you cry out, whimper, as if in pain, as if on the verge of tears, and Tim leans back, sways just a quarter of a step away, only lightening his hold, not letting go of you, Tim looks at you, in your eyes, tilting his head, putting a hand on your burning face.

"Hey," he says.

_Come on_ , he says, _what's up, relax, why are you shaking so much, fuck, have you really done nothing like it or what?_

You tell him that you have. You kind of have. He asks you what you mean by _kind of_ , keeping you there, making you stay, not letting you run, which you can't do anyway.

You tell him about John. But not really, you don't, it's more like he tells you, you simply say some words. You like John too. Have liked him since forever. Never said a thing. John is your friend. You're John's straight friend. John thinks you're straight too. John jerked you off a few times, when you were drunk, when you were alone with him, when you were in a compromising state, John jerked you off and giggled, giggled about it, some charity for his poor straight friend.

Tim rolls his eyes at the story you both told.

"Jesus," he says, shaking his head, wrinkling his nose, quirking his lips, making a quite expressive face. "Nothing else?"

You tell him there was something else. But there kind of wasn't. He asks again, and you tell him you were young. Tell him that nothing really happened. There is nothing to tell him. It doesn't count. It was just kissing. It was less, much less, than Tim himself has already done right now.

"Fucking hell," Tim says. "That's..."

Boring. Lonely. Ridiculous, just like you are, but no. Tim doesn't say this.

"You should've, okay?" he says. "You should've. And you should've fucking told me. You should've told me years ago. I mean... I mean, you fucking wear too much clothes and always hide behind your damn kit anyway, but here's to the venue showers, okay? Here's to the heat waves. Here's to fucking Florida. You should've told me. You're cute. Hot. Pretty. You're great. Fucking want you. Fucking was sure you were straight. You're... You're a handsome fucking man, okay? Fuck. Fuck, Ginger. Fucking beautiful. Fucking, fucking beautiful."

Tim tells you all of that while touching you, while being very close, while pressing into you, bumping into you, almost rubbing himself on you and hugging you, pulling you even closer, holding you tight, with bare hands on your bare skin, pulling things out, off and pushing them away, kissing your neck, licking your neck, biting your neck, but gently, sucking your lobe, kissing your ear, licking your ear, biting your ear and pulling and gently saying all of that in it, in breathless bursts, in words that burst somewhere inside you.

It's painful.

You can't listen to it, simply can't, but you do hear him, hear his hurried, red-hot whispers.

You cry out.

You cry out, when Tim pulls out your cock.

 _Fucking, fucking beautiful_ , he buzzes in your ear.

"Fuck, Ginger, you look like you're gonna flop," he tells you, looking at you and holding you and making you be there.

You tell him that you will. You surely will. You cannot stand. You can't stand like that any longer.

You say _please._

"Come on," Tim says.

It's likely that you're asking him to let you disappear, but he says _come on_ , he says _fuck, yeah, let's..._ and gestures at the bed, and then sits down, leaving you to shake in front of him.

That's all you do. You shake, you moan, loud, surprised and scared, as if in pain, ridiculous, you come, it seems, a second after Tim puts his lips around you.

Because he does.

He sits down, still holding you, not letting go, pulling you closer by the thighs, looks up, smiles, wide and bright, he wraps his palm around you, his fingers moving, as you watch, you've always watched him, always liked him, he leans in, saying _come on_ , and takes you in his mouth, he sucks you in.

He sucks you out.

There is very little left of you, once Tim is done. Once you're finished - just a second later. You would've been embarrassed, but there is almost nothing left of you. There wasn't much there to begin with, yes, but now there're only gaps.

Gaps, with brief moments of overly bright clarity between them.

You come. Moaning. Tim swallows. Humming. Tim swallows, keeps sucking, sucking the last out of you, until you go soft. You go soft. All of you. You're in bed. In bed you've barely fucked in. In your unsuitable for anything, boring, restrictive, lonely bed. You're thirsty. You grab at Tim's arm with your weak fingers while he helps you drink. You grab at him to be able to sit up. A bit. You can't sit up. You float on the forbidding mattress. You can't breathe. You take the drags, while Tim holds the cigarette next to your breathless lips. You float in there, blind and deaf, while Tim sits right next to you, looking you up and down, touching you. You're just a gap.

"Nice," Tim says.

He held you. Held your hands that started dancing, shaking in the air, during that second that you lasted. He held you, tight, he squeezed them, humming around you.

And now his hands are on you. Touching. Moving up and down, just like his eyes.

"Fucking nice," he says, his hands on you. On the cigarette. And on him too.

He touches himself through the pants, while smoking, while looking, while touching you.

The first thought that you get back is that you should do something. That you really should.

Only you know that you won't. Not just because you've never done it. Not just because you are a coward. You're just weak, soft, floating, you just can't move.

"You're..." you say. Tim lifts his head and looks at you, at your lips moving, his hand moving on your chest, stomach, thighs, your clothes pulled out, off you, yanked up and down, your skin Tim's curiously mapping all exposed.

You tell him he is hard. He laughs, says _yeah, I know_. You blush, you very likely blush. You tell him something, something that can't mean what you should tell him. He raises his eyebrows at you.

"That would be great," he says. "But you've... You haven't done that either, right?"

You tell him that you haven't. You wanted to, you want to, you want him, to do something for him, something he has done, the same, but worse, you are not good at that, you can't be, you wouldn't be good at that even if you'd done that - and you haven't, but.

"Okay," Tim says and smiles, shifts closer to you, leans in. "I don't give a shit. I mean, I have already shown you..." he laughs, hand on your face, almost on your lips, and on him, on his own cock. "How about you start with fingers? And I'll jerk off. You're fucking cute. Wanna fucking come on you."

You don't tell him anything. His fingers touch your lips, slip in, you let them, let him, you do that, try sucking them and licking them, you moan around them as Tim too moans, hums, buzzes, tells you what to do, explains it, everything, _fuck, give me your tongue_ , he says, rubbing his fingers over it, _your fucking lips_ , he says, _your fucking mouth_ , he says, he touches them and the insides of it, fingers travelling in random, hurried, red-hot circles, _come on, suck_ , he says, _suck, suck, like that, fuck, like that_ , he says, _let me_ , he says, _yeah, just let me_ , he says, fucking his fingers between your lips, fucking your mouth with them, as he works himself, straddling your thighs and squeezing them with his, bent over you, looking up and down on repeat, at your face and his own fingers and at your stomach he's been touching, at your stomach he comes on, hot, messy, bursting, saying _fucking, fucking beautiful_ , at your stomach he comes on and licks clean right after that, falling down and still saying _fucking, fucking beautiful_ , saying _fucking, fucking fuck_ against your heaving insides.

 _Sorry_ , he tells you. He rolls off you, falls down next to you, cursing, cursing the bed and grabbing at the cigarettes, taking a drag and a hold of you, grabbing you too, pulling you closer, pressing into you and looking at you.

"Sorry," Tim tells you. "Fuck, you're still shaking. Fuck. Sorry. Relax, okay? I'm not... I'm not gonna do anything to you, okay? I just always get carried away, when I'm... Hard cock, soft brain, you know. Sorry. I'm... It's all alright, okay? Don't shake. Come here. Come on." He puts his cigarette between your lips too, touching your hair, shoulder, hugging you. "Come on. Like that. Just relax. Sorry, okay? I'm not... Let's just sleep. Come here. Your fucking, fucking bed. Come here. Fucking nice. Let's sleep."

He whispers in your ear, still hot. Kisses it. Wraps his whole body around you. And you don't know how, but you do.

You fall asleep.

You turn into a gap again.

***

You know there's nobody in there with you. You're just dreaming. There's never anybody. You're always on your own. Old. Boring. Lone...

You blink, opening your eyes. And again - seeing Tim.

"Hey," he says, sitting near you, one foot pulled under him. He's naked. He's looking at you. Touching you. You didn't dream of that. You're naked too. "Are you okay?"

You swallow, move, lick your lips. He gives you the glass of water he's already given you before. You then lie down, his hands on you once again.

"Hey," Tim says. "Ginj. Fuck. Are you alright? I uh... You fucking looked like you were gonna jump out of the window on me, so... And I didn't stop. Are you okay? I should've... I know it shouldn't have been like that, but I just... Fuck. Sorry, okay? Tell me you're fine."

You do. You tell him you're fine, Tim visibly relaxing. You don't know why he's even worried. You...

"Okay," he says. You looked at him for six years straight, and now he knows that. Why is he worried. "Alright. I guess... I guess I'm not like a fucking asshole then, am I?"

You tell him he is not. You like him. You wanted him. And it. You liked it. You tell him that, you tell him that you liked it too, because he asks. _Of course it is_ , you say, when he asks if it's okay that he's touching you. He just keeps touching you.

He touches you, gentle, pensive, curious, just like, as you imagine, he was touching the imprints of you your house's full of. You imagine that, you do not know. You didn't see his face, you didn't think you needed to, and maybe you were right, maybe, because now you do.

You tell him everything as he slowly runs his fingers over your skin, in unending circles, spirals, you tell him much more than you thought you would - when he was leaving. You answer him. You tell him it was... You tell him it's really six years. You tell him about his hands and fingers and his agile lips. You even tell him about what they did to you, and the things you don't tell him, he tells you himself. _Nice_ , he says. _Great. Hot. Amazing._

And it was.

You shudder, sucking in a sharp inhale, when his hand wanders lower, brushing against your stomach. You're scared. Tim...

Tim turns his head, looks over his own shoulder.

"Wow," he says. "Fuck." He shifts a bit, licks his lips. "You really should've fucking told me."

He puts his hand around you.

"Fucking beautiful," he says, moving it slowly, fingers travelling over your length.

You're hard. You have been hard for who knows how long, throughout your whole conversation, or, in all honesty, much longer, you have been hard for all six years that you kept silent, you told Tim everything, but Tim told you more. He told you you feel nice. That you're great. And hot. Amazing. He told you that he'd noticed you, in Florida, in heat waves, in venue showers, behind your drum kit, told you he'd always thought that you were cute, that you were all other things he said, he was just sure that you were straight, and now you are not, you are not and into him and fuck, you really, really should've told him.

He touches you, while saying that, touches you as if it's hard for him to stop.

He doesn't, goes on, hand around you, fingers on your length. You moan, lick your lips, you shiver, jerking up you hips, on accident, simply because he's touching you and it is hard for you to stop.

"You got lube?" Tim asks you.

You tell him it's in that... and don't say in what, don't finish, because Tim gets up, because it's in the bottom drawer and there is this other thing, because you cut yourself short too late, and Tim chuckles, Tim says _oh_ , Tim says _wow._

"You haven't told me about this," he says, the damn egg in his hand, a smile on his lips, his eyes on you.

You know what is there, in that drawer. Lube. An old lighter. A notebook you put there a few nights ago. Wet napkins.

You know that it's boring. It's restrictive. It's also unbearable - because of that thing. That damn thing you've never even used.

You tell him that. You tell him that you've no idea why you bought it. That you were drunk. Clicked on an ad. You don't tell him you're blushing, he can see that. You don't tell him that you're going to cry.

"Hey," he says, sitting down next to you, touching you, hand on your face. "Relax. God, relax. It's fine, okay?" He shrugs, smiles. "It's fucking hot. I... Can I?"

He licks the thing, after you tell him that of course he can.

Of course he fucking can.

You watch him lick the egg, the very entrance, trying it, as if it is a real one he cooked, you watch him slip his lubed fingers into it. Your eyes roll back, when he puts it on you, your eyes simply close on their own, but Tim speaks to you.

 _Hey_ , he says. _Nice, is it_ , he asks.

You nod, barely, and moan. Tim moves his hand so slowly. Tim looks at you, your face and down, to the side, at the damn egg he puts on you. You've never done even that. You are never even naked in your own bed.

"Fuck, sorry," Tim tells you, pulling it off. "Sorry. Wanna touch you."

He touches you. He uncaps the lube again, he hurries, pouring it in his own palm, he wraps it around you, and you moan, your eyes roll back, you can't help the things you do, it isn't hard for you to stop, you simply can't.

And you babble.

You tell him something, you tell him something else, because he's hard again, he bites his lips, lifting his hand, pausing, breaking the circles he's drawing on your skin, your chest and stomach, as he jerks you off, touches himself, briefly, only kind of pushing his own cock away, and you say something.

You don't have a chance of understanding the very things you say to him.

"Yeah, fuck, sure," Tim says, Tim grabs the lube again. "Give me your hand."

You do, and he pours lube on it, he holds your fingers, he wraps your palm around himself, pressing on your knuckles, he tells you _yeah, fuck, like that_. It is your wrong, your right hand.

You wouldn't be very good at it even if it was the other one, you think.

"Just let me..." Tim says, buzzes, hums out, squeezing your hand with his and pushing in, sitting up, moving his hips. "Yeah, fuck, like that, just let me... Fuck, wanna fuck you."

It gets to you. All he says gets to you so much, all that he does, his words, his face, his eyes on you, his hand on yours, his hand around you, all of that gets to you, into you, inside of you.

Tim jerks you off. Tim fucks your fist he's squeezing and tells you that he wants to fuck you, your hand, your mouth, hole, all of you, _come on your fucking cock_ , he tells you, he wants that too, he says that, says that he wants to ride you till you fucking burst, he simply talks to you, he asks you questions, wants to know, to know what you would want, you know that, it's nothing else, he isn't trying to make you burst right there, right on the spot, but you are already bursting and all of that gets too deep inside of you.

"Fuck, yeah, fucking, fucking yeah," Tim buzzes, pushing in your palm, faster, rougher and squeezing you, speeding up, drawing everything out of you - though you're just moans.

"Fucking, fucking fuck you," Tim says, pushing in your palm one last time, holding your knuckles tight and spilling, coming, lips quirked, nose wrinkled, eyebrows raised high and eyes on you - as if there isn't enough of you, and, probably, by that time there isn't, probably, there never was.

There is too much of Tim.

You watch him come, feel it, hot and messy, all over your palm, and it too gets to you, it is too much for you.

You come right after him, because you just can't stop.

Because Tim doesn't stop too.

He lets go of you without letting go of you, he lifts his own hand, almost yanks it up, still holding yours, still squeezing it, his come spilling between your fingers onto his, he lifts his hand you've just spilled in and licks it clean, sucks the fingers, sucks you out without even putting his mouth on you.

He puts your own hand on yours. Your own fingers on your lips. Tim's come. Then - Tim's lips. Tim kisses you, and you feel him smiling. Humming against you.

 _Fucking, fucking you_ , he hums.

***

You tell him that of course you will.

You tell him that, opening the door a minute after closing it.

Tim lies in your bed with you and hugs you, kissing your fingers, licking what you haven't off them, kissing you too, his hands on you. His hand is on your stomach, when it growls. Tim laughs and then gets up, and you listen to him doing things that are still mysterious to you downstairs, lying in your bed. You realize that that new silence that you've heard, it isn't silence. It is noise. You realize you've never heard that much noise in here. That much buzzing. That much life.

You eat, you both do, and then Tim says that he'll get out of your face. He says he kind of overstayed his welcome. He says that he'll leave you be, because he didn't even behave, did he.

You close the door after him, and seconds pass, it's just a few, but still enough for you to think that's it, it must be it, Tim has left you be what you have always been, what you always will be without him.

But then he knocks. Loud, determined, unrestrained, and when you open, jumping at the sound and at the sight of him, gives you his number.

"Call me, okay?" he says. "Fucking call me."

You tell him that of course you will.

And you might've. At least you think you might. You think you should've, should've simply called, instead of thinking when it would be appropriate to call, after how long a stretch of time, and if you think harder, just a bit harder, you'd realize it was that endless, unimaginable one that doesn't pass, because Tim calls you himself, leaving you no chance to do it, to do what you said you would.

"Hey," he says, on the phone with you. "So I figured I was fucking stupid, you know, leaving my number to the guy who spent six years keeping his mouth shut, so here I am, calling you myself. Do you know that every tech in the city has your number and thinks you are a dearie? They fucking do. So... How has it been? What's up? Wanna see you."

You think that it is better - having no chance to do things. Leaving all the chances to Tim. Becase he will.

You tell him that he will. He'll see you.

______________________________________________________________________________________


End file.
